by Leslie Wolfe
The silence felt heavy on the other side of the line. “Copy that, Detective,” the man replied eventually. “You’ll have it within the hour.”
She wished she could’ve smashed the phone against the man’s wall or something, but the center was all the way in Redding; otherwise, she would’ve paid them a visit and listened to the recording right away.
Pulling the door shut behind her, she crossed the soaked lawn quickly, almost running, her footsteps sending water droplets high in the air. In passing, she noticed a few details about the family she was about to visit.
Opaque curtains covered all windows on the Livingstons’ home. Little light was coming from inside, only where the curtain panels met, forming a faint vertical line. There were contact sensors installed on all the windows she passed by and motion detection sensors that activated two pairs of powerful floodlights as she turned the corner of their garage, then again toward the front door. Was there a history of break-ins in the neighborhood that she didn’t know about?
Taking a mental note to ask the Livingstons about it, she rang the bell. Rushed footfalls on hardwood resounded behind the red-painted door. The younger Mrs. Livingston opened it with the dawning of a smile on her lips, her face turning pale when she recognized Kay.
“Oh,” she reacted, stepping back and clutching the lapels of her blouse with pudgy fingers. Her entire body silently willed the detective to stay away, to keep her distance. Kay wondered why yet pretended she didn’t notice anything.
“I was wondering if I could ask you and your husband a few more questions,” Kay said, flashing her most disarming smile to put Mrs. Livingston’s reluctance at ease.
The woman nodded, swallowing hard, and licked her dry, chapped lips still bearing traces of the crimson lipstick she’d worn that day. “Come on in.”
They’d already sat down to eat, the old Mrs. Livingston the only one happy to see Kay.
“Ah, come on in, my dear, join us for dinner,” the elderly woman said, clapping her hands with excitement.
Frank Livingston nodded in Kay’s direction with the shortest of smiles, then leaned over and whispered something in his mother’s ear.
“Why not?” the old woman pushed back loudly. “She’s a nice person. I can tell.”
Flushed with embarrassment, Frank stood and pulled out a chair, inviting Kay to take a seat at the table. She hesitated, police procedure clear on the matter; she couldn’t touch anything they would offer, and a certain distance had to be maintained. But since when were distance and rejection the ingredients of a good conversation?
Instead, she smiled shyly and said, “Well, I’m not supposed to, but I don’t want your food to get cold while we talk. Please, don’t let my presence interrupt your dinner,” she invited them, but only Betty picked up her fork and eagerly stabbed a piece of potato.
The food smelled delicious, mouthwatering fried fish with roasted potatoes with lemon and herbs, from what she could tell. The scent of lemon butter filled her nostrils and made her wonder if the potatoes had been roasted with slices of citrus. One of the Livingstons surely knew how to cook. Judging by the stained apron she was still wearing, that must’ve been Diane.
Frank and his wife sat quietly, hands folded in their laps, avoiding her glance, until Frank finally glanced at her briefly and asked, “What can we do for you, Detective?” Then he reached for his glass and took a thirsty swig of ice water he nearly choked on.
“I was wondering if you knew anything about Cheryl’s life, anything that would help us with our investigation.” She reminded herself to look at Diane, although she had a good idea who knew the most about Cheryl among those gathered around the table.
Blotches of red stained Frank’s face. “I’m one of Julie’s teachers, so yes.” He cleared his throat and patted his lips with a napkin, then scrunched it nervously in his hand, holding on to it instead of discarding it on the table. “Um, I guess I know a little about them.”
Diane Livingston stared firmly ahead, expressionless, while Betty ate with a healthy appetite. Frank glanced quickly at both women as if asking permission to continue, then added, “Julie’s your typical teenager. Hangs out with other girls her age. They giggle all day long whispering in one another’s ears, glance at boys, then giggle and whisper some more.” He shrugged and pushed his unfinished plate aside. “I guess it’s nature taking its course.”
Interesting, Kay thought, how she’d asked about Cheryl, and he chose to talk about Julie. Maybe she’d been wrong, and Frank only knew Cheryl as the mother of one of his students, nothing more. Then why the weirdness, weighing heavy and bothersome like stale cigar smoke?
“Was she involved with anyone?” Kay asked, continuing on the road Frank Livingston wanted to take her.
He frowned briefly. “At their age, it’s not real involvement, not like with adults. It’s more like having a boyfriend and hanging out, holding hands, that sort of thing.”
“Ah,” Betty reacted, and everyone immediately looked at her. Her voice expressed interest, as if Frank’s words had confirmed her suspicion. But the old woman didn’t add anything else, and no one asked what she meant by her reaction. Seeing how both Frank and Diane preferred Betty didn’t speak in Kay’s presence, she didn’t ask either, planning to do that later, right before leaving. There was no point in antagonizing them.
“My apologies,” Kay said, “that’s what I meant. So, there’s a boyfriend?”
He pressed his lips together for a brief moment, thinking. “I don’t believe so,” he eventually replied. “But I can’t be sure. I’ve only seen her hanging out with other girls. She’s a good kid; she doesn’t mix with the wrong crowds or anything.”
“How about Cheryl?” Kay asked and carefully watched the effect of her question as it rippled around the table.
Diane bit her lip and chose to look sideways and down. She didn’t seem jealous or suspicious, only afraid. Again, the same unusual reaction.
“What about her?” Frank asked, a little too quickly.
Betty placed her fork noisily on the side of her plate as if to draw everyone’s attention. “Give this fine young woman a plate and some food, Frank. She’s just skin and bones, poor thing.”
“No, thank you,” Kay said, smiling uncomfortably and shuffling in her seat just as Frank leaned against the table with both hands, about to stand. “I’m fine, really. I just ate.”
Frank didn’t insist; settling back on his chair, he seemed relieved, probably eager to see her gone, and so was Diane. The tension in the air was thick and loaded with static electricity as if sparks were about to fly between the two spouses, with Kay as the catalyst. Only Betty was happy and seemed detached, intrigued, the murder-kidnapping next door most likely an opportunity to break the boredom of her days.
“Do you happen to know if Cheryl was planning to travel anywhere?” Kay asked in the most casual tone of voice, hoping to catch another glimpse of the conflict brewing just underneath the surface.
Feigned surprise appeared in various degrees on the Livingstons’ faces. As they’d done before, they looked at one another before Frank replied, the old woman nodding slowly, as if she were thinking, I knew it.
“Uh, I, um, we had no idea of any travel. Where was she going?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Kay replied. “How about her relationships?” she asked serenely, finally poking the presumed elephant in the room right in the rear, if there was an elephant of that nature after all. “Was she seeing someone?”
Diane stood rather abruptly and started clearing the table, taking a handful of dishes to the kitchen. She seemed a little flustered, annoyed even, but not more.
“Not that I know of,” Frank replied. “We weren’t that close. She led a very busy life, with a job and those girls, and we, um, like to keep to ourselves.”
“Yes, we do because we’re cowards,” Betty intervened in a loud, scratchy voice, like fingernails on a chalkboard.
“Shush, Mother,” Frank sa
id, touching her forearm and glaring at her.
“It’s all right,” Kay said, with a dismissive hand gesture, knowing very well that would ignite the old woman’s appetite to talk. “I’ve seen your security system and floodlights. Do you have concerns with breaking and entering?”
“No,” Frank replied, seeming relieved. “Not really.”
“It’s the darkness he’s trying to keep at bay,” Betty said, standing with difficulty and leaning on the table with bony, knotted hands. She wore a dress in a blue-gray flower pattern that brought out her blue eyes, making them seem more intense against the million lines of her withered face, almost maniacal. “But darkness won’t—”
Back from the kitchen, Diane promptly grabbed her elbow. “Come on, Betty, it’s time to go to bed.” The fear was clearly visible on Diane’s face. Whatever it was they were trying to keep the old woman from sharing scared both of them.
“I’ll say when it’s time to go,” Betty snapped, pulling her elbow forcefully from Diane’s grip, with the anger most old people feel when they’re not taken seriously or shown respect.
“It’s the Alzheimer’s,” Diane mouthed for Kay’s benefit, holding her hands up in an apologetic gesture. She seemed genuinely embarrassed by her mother-in-law’s outburst, her face flushed, her chest heaving rapidly with short, panicky breaths.
“It’s all right,” Kay repeated. “My mother struggled with it too,” she lied without batting an eyelash, forgetting she’d returned to live in a small town where everyone knew everyone. A pang of guilt zapped through her mind for using her mother like that, shamelessly lying to suit her purpose, the memory of her dying of cancer still raw and haunting and unsettling. “In my experience,” she added, lowering her voice to a conspirative whisper for the benefit of Frank and Diane, “it’s best to let them unload whatever they feel the urge to say, then they’ll find peace, and everyone can enjoy a relaxing evening.”
Frank looked at Diane for a moment. The woman shrugged almost imperceptibly and walked away from the table with the remaining plates she collected quickly and quietly; as if distancing herself, as if saying, “I don’t want any part of this.”
“Or I could leave,” Kay offered, seeing Betty wasn’t saying anything. The woman looked dismayed, as if taken aback by her family’s attitude toward her. “Thank you very much for your help,” Kay added. “As you can imagine, we’re doing everything we can to find Julie—”
“You won’t find her!” Betty shouted, pointing a shaky finger at her and standing so unexpectedly Kay took a step back. “She was a firstborn daughter,” she added, pacing toward Kay in an unsteady gait. “The spirits of the valley took her, and once she’s gone, she’s gone forever.”
Slack-jawed, Kay listened, trying to figure out if there was any bit of usable information in the woman’s words. She definitely believed strongly in what she was saying, but… the spirits of the valley? Imagine searching ViCAP, the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program database, for that, she thought, containing a bitter scoff. Maybe Frank and Diane were right, and the woman’s Alzheimer’s was more serious than she’d thought. Disappointed, she zipped up her jacket, getting ready to leave and face the elements raging outside.
“Hush, Mother,” Frank said, clutching her hand and trying to lead her gently away from the table, from Kay. But Betty held her ground, grabbing a fistful of Kay’s sleeve and tugging hard.
“It was always destined to be so,” she said, her eyes shooting darts left and right, as if afraid the spirits might overhear the conversation. Then she turned to Frank with an accusatory stare, not letting go of Kay’s sleeve. “I always told you this would happen. And what did we do? Nothing.” She crinkled her nose in disgust. “That sweet woman died protecting her daughter because the spirits can’t be defeated.” As her pitch climbed, a tremor in her voice told Kay she was under the spell of powerful emotion. Alzheimer’s or not, the woman truly believed what she was saying. And, for some reason, she thought Frank could’ve helped Cheryl but had chosen not to do so, and that was well worth pursuing.
“Why do you think this tragedy could’ve been avoided?” Kay asked Betty, watching fear drain the blood from Frank’s face. She’d hit a nerve.
“Aah,” the old woman groaned, rattling her sleeve as if to shake Kay back to reality. “We knew about it, that’s why! Everyone knew about it. If you have a firstborn daughter, you’re doomed to cry the tears of a broken-hearted mother,” she recited. “He knew about it too,” she added bitterly, throwing Frank a side glance. “Three days ago, he knew the time had come to—”
“That’s it, Mother, you’re going to bed.” He tugged at her arm, and with his other hand tried to wrestle the old woman’s fingers away from Kay’s sleeve. “The detective was just leaving,” he added, throwing Kay a short but meaningful glance.
“No need for that,” she said, giving Frank a clear warning about mistreating Betty in a stern voice. “I’m leaving. For now.”
She turned to leave, ignoring Betty’s flailing arm as she was trying to grab onto her again.
“Don’t believe me,” Betty shouted, her voice sounding strangled from the effort. “Look for yourself. It’s always been firstborn daughters, for as long as I can remember living on this Earth.”
“Mother!” Frank snapped, trying to lead her away toward the back of the house.
Stunned, Kay stood only two steps from the front door, held open by Diane. Her amenable smile was gone, a frown visible under her badly cut bangs to match the deep, vertical lines flanking her tense mouth.
“Never a son, never a secondborn daughter,” Betty shouted, pushing Frank away and managing to take a few steps toward Kay.
Defeated, Frank let his arms fall alongside his body. “Detective,” he urged her, “as you can see, my mother isn’t well. If you’ll excuse us, please.”
“Sure, no problem,” Kay said and stepped outside, but then turned and asked him, “Did you have any prior knowledge of anything or anyone threatening Cheryl or Julie?”
His eyes were suddenly those of an old, tired, and sad man. “Absolutely not, Detective. I would’ve said something.”
She waved goodbye and grabbed the patio railing, ready to sprint through the heavy rain across the lawn to her car.
Before Diane had a chance to close the door behind her, she heard Betty’s voice once again, shouting, “Are you a firstborn daughter?”
13
Dawn
He still stood in front of the tall windows, his eyes riveted to the pitch-black sky occasionally set ablaze with shades of metallic blue and silver by distant lightning. The chandeliers had been turned off, leaving him engulfed in the same darkness that lay thick across the land, a heavy blanket of ominous obscurity. He hadn’t slept that night, not for a single moment, breathlessly waiting for a sign from Mother.
Despite his many prayers, she’d stayed silent, foreboding, unwilling to cede.
The first light of dawn came as a hint of deep, dreary gray, so faint it seemed more like an illusion. Then it grew stronger, light defeating darkness yet again like it had done without exception, day after day. There was no hint of blue sky anywhere, only heavy, lead-lined clouds headed inland from the ocean in rolling, menacing clumps, an endless deluge with a hint of Pacific salt in every drop. Rain fell hard, opening deep wounds in Mother’s body, wounds that only he could heal.
Only he knew how to appease her.
As he’d done many times over the long night that was just ending, he approached the window behind the bookcase and looked at the girl.
She slept on the floor, refusing to come anywhere near the bed he’d so carefully prepared for her with rustling white sheets and a duvet to keep her warm. Instead, she’d curled up on her side, hands tucked between her knees. She’d cried herself to sleep, mumbling endless, senseless apologies to her mother. What did her mother have to do with anything? Stupid, stupid girl.
Yet so beautiful, her skin so pristine and soft, her hair falling on her shoulders in
waves of finest silk. He stared at his own fingertips for a long moment, fantasizing, then rubbed them against one another, slowly, gently, as if to kindle the sensation of touching that perfect skin, running his fingers down her shoulders, brushing against her budding breast, descending lower and lower, following the shape of her body as he would a curvy mountain road moistened by early morning dew.
“Dear Mother, hear your sinful child,” he whispered, touching the cold glass where the image of the girl’s body came to life before his eyes. She shifted in her sleep and whimpered, sending a rush of sensual urges through his body. He licked his parched lips and swallowed hard, the intensity of his emotions choking him. “I stand before you, begging your mercy and forgiveness. Show me the path and I will follow. I will heal your wounds and dry your tears like I have always done.” He closed his eyes to block the girl’s image from view in an attempt to control his urges, but the image persisted against the backdrop of his eyelids as if he and the girl had already become one.
He squeezed his eyelids shut and breathed, and a few moments later, the image dissipated, only to stubbornly return with a surge in the heat coursing through his blood. Deciding to keep the vision at bay, he walked slowly toward the tall window overlooking the soaked lawn and gazed toward the sky where the light was brightest.
“Dear Mother, hear your child.” He pressed his hands together and brought them closer to his chest. “I’ve been alone for so long.” An unexpected tear rolled down his cheek. “Since the day you chose me, demanding your first sacrifice. And I have never wavered,” he continued, shaking his head as if to underline his whispered words, his voice gravelly. “Maybe just this time, and for a little while, not long, you could have mercy on my weary soul and let me keep her a while longer.”